The Last Line
by Revanche
Summary: Fighting the good fight.


Title: The Last Line   
Author: Revanche   
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.  
Rating: R   
Feedback: Yes, please.  
Spoilers: Through 2 x 13. 

Fighting the good fight.

* * *

Amber halogen glow and a layer of sweat cools on his skin. He hears the rasp of sandpaper across wood and the depth of his own breath. His arms are burning and his fingers ache from being in this position for so long. He doesn't look at the clock. The passage of time doesn't matter. He won't finish this tonight, but he'll do enough. He can't sleep, anyway; he may as well make use of the time. Make the best of it. Do what he can, even if it's not enough. Used to be Julia's mantra, do what you can. 

Actually, he thinks, it probably still is. He remembers the cross-stitched pillows, the framed pictures of big-eyed kittens she used to keep in her office, in deference to the fact that he couldn't fucking stand them.

He doesn't wonder where she is now, because honestly he doesn't care whether she's still got her own practice or if she's being a housewife, married to Jim who was there on the late nights when he just couldn't make it home himself, because Jim Really Did Care. So did he, Gibbs'd pointed out. Just not about screwing the neighbor when said neighbor's spouse was trying to find the bastard who'd jabbed a bent wire coathanger into Lt. Sarnow's brain via the convenient route of her left eye. That was when Julia went for the paperweight, a good-sized frosted glass sculpture of a goddamned kitten, though if anybody asks, he got that scar when a scumbag ambushed him and sorry, that's classified.

He doesn't wonder where she is now, because right now he's got other things to worry about. Death and violence and the flow of Ducky's blood down the drain outrank ex-wives, wherever they may be.

As if to punctuate the thought, his grasp on the sander finally slips and the rough surface drags across the hand he was using to brace himself, tearing at his skin. It isn't so much painful as it is annoying and he snarls, reaches back and flings the sander at the wall. He's in an enclosed space, though, and he immediately regrets the action, choking on the haze of nearly-microscopic wood particles that fill the air like a mushroom cloud.

He glares at the offending tool and thinks that really it's time he should go to bed. Other people do it all the time; it's not that bad. He remembers waking up in a cold sweat after unzipping the body bag and seeing clouded, milky eyes staring up at him and decides that he can wait a little while longer. He's not looking forward to seeing Ducky exsanguinated any time soon.

He is, he thinks, really, really tired of nightmares. Or maybe he's just tired all-together. This was supposed to be over. The goddamned finish line was in sight. He put a bullet in the bastard's shoulder, heard him hit the ground, and it was supposed to fucking end right there where it began.

But as it turns out, he thinks, this isn't a sprint race. There's no quick ending, no final burst of speed necessary to win. It's a marathon, a constant, steady pace, and the end is nowhere in sight. The smooth quick-draw lines of the Sig in his hand, the clean depression of the trigger beneath his fingers, the sound of the bullet piercing unprotected flesh, these were supposed to bring about a reprieve, a chance to rest. But it didn't, it hasn't and he's still making mistakes. It's just that now he doesn't have the Terrorist - doesn't have Ari - to blame for his strange attentions, the fact that so often these days he focuses on the wrong thing, misses what's right in front of him. Nearly losing Dinozzo in the sewer was a wake-up call, and how long has it been since he told Kate that he'd yet to lose an agent? He said it and then he hung up on the agent who was calling for help, he remembers. He said it and then he disconnected Dinozzo's call.

And now he's done it again, slipped up, and Ducky paid for that mistake, and it was more than humiliating. He fully understands that Ducky could have died, and if that had happened, Gibbs would have done more than just remove the necrophiliac's teeth.

But the thing is, hard as it was to admit to Kate, to acknowledge his role in what happened, it wasn't impossible. Not for totally altruistic reasons, though he knows those exist. After all, he saw what happened after she shot the ensign. He thinks that Ducky would have been too much for her, losing him because she was outside investigating a damned dog. But that's not why he had to admit it, really. It was because he knew they wouldn't call him on it otherwise, and they need to see that he's not infallible. He makes mistakes. The minute they think otherwise, they'll feel too safe. He's got their backs, but there are limits to even the most heroic human acts. He's human and he doesn't pretend otherwise. He makes mistakes; this was only one of them, latest in a series. The sooner Kate and Tony and McGee learn that, the safer they'll be. He's not always going to be there. They can't always trust him.

He's not their goddamned father.

They're not his goddamned kids, either. They're not even his charges. They're agents who happen to be under his supervision, technically, but it's more than that. More, and family doesn't explain it at all.

Sometimes "friends" doesn't, either.

Sometimes, he thinks, they are all he has and he's all they have; they're a team, fellow soldiers in an unnamed and ongoing war, and whatever happens, happens. They'll do what they can; it's all they can do. All anybody can ever do, but what if it's not enough?

He feels, suddenly, old. He's slipping and maybe his hands don't ache from effort but from the onset of arthritis, just as his eyes are beginning to fail. When he goes down, he pays for it the next day; bruises take longer to fade and when he makes mistakes, they don't just go away. Maybe, just maybe, he's getting too old for this job. Maybe it's time to pass the torch, let somebody younger take over.

Maybe Dinozzo's ready for a promotion.

But it is late and the thought won't matter in a few hours when he gets up for work, turns his attention to the latest battle and the defining exchanges. He turns off the light, closes the door at the top of the stairs, and a bullet-torn photo hangs on the wall, but there's no one left to notice. The blood-stained banner, the bloody shirt, is no longer a photograph. No longer a man. Right now there is no cynosure, no fulcrum, no flame burning bright, no symbol for what he does, for his cause and his devotions and his obsessions.

Unfortunately, he doesn't doubt that he'll find one soon enough.

xxxxx

The End


End file.
